Jackie Bird: Delivering the big story? Now that can be painful

AFTER Prince George's hospital watch marathon JACKIE says the people most in need of some gas and air were the helpless presenters and reporters told to keep bumping their gums, even when nothing was happening.

Media continue to wait outside the Lindo Wing of St Mary's Hospital in London as the Duchess of Cambridge has been admitted to the hospital in the early stages of labour (Photo: Yui Mok/PA Wire)

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THEY call it a media circus because there are so many clowns.

As you’d expect, this isn’t my view but the reactions of friends who buttonholed me last week to ask why TV stations went over the top with their coverage of wee Prince George’s entry into the world.

Even I lost the will to live when, early on Tuesday morning, poor old Simon McCoy informed us the couple wouldn’t be leaving the hospital before 6pm – and then he was kept on air for the rest of the day.

At one stage he had to admit: “Plenty more to come, none of it news, but that won’t stop us!”

It’s a classic case of don’t shoot the messenger.

We helpless presenters and reporters are being told to keep bumping our gums by the ringmasters back in cosy media HQs who, crazily, don’t hear alarm bells when desperate broadcasters have to speculate on the cervical dilation of a duchess.

Of course, my sympathies would lie there – I’ve been one of them.

One of my worst experiences was at the sombre unveiling of the Lockerbie memorial by President Clinton in Washington’s Arlington Cemetery.

Clinton was running late. We went on air at 6.30 and as the minutes ticked by I had exhausted every nuance of information I had. At precisely 20 seconds to 7pm, his motorcade drew into the cemetery…and at precisely seven, the big brains of the BBC decided to take us off air.

Our small, exhausted team arrived in Glasgow the next day to newspaper coverage rightly calling us all the eejits of the day.

On a lighter note, I recall being sent to cover the first few days of Scotland’s last appearance in the World Cup – yes, I am that old – in Paris.

Bizarrely, we were broadcasting from a barge on the Seine and the last 10 minutes of the programme had been set aside for some light banter with guests.

However, two people, who shall remain nameless but bore a certain resemblance to Ally McCoist and Fred MacAulay, had been partaking of French hospitality that day and decided to give us a body swerve.

Then followed an excruciating chat between the presenter in Glasgow and me, which ended with her racking her brains and asking if I’d managed to fit in any shopping. Clearly the good people of Scotland don’t pay their licence fees for details of what I picked up in Le Marks and Sparks, so again we got pelters.

Believe me, out in the field we’re powerless as our umbilical earpieces mean we’re governed by voices in our heads and their every irrational whim.

After baby George’s hospital-watch marathon, I promise you the people most in need of gas and air were the reporters.